She shrugs. “You know…”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“You know,” Nadine looks me in the eye and whispers. “The curse.”
My stomach flips at this. After the first members of our team died in strange circumstances, they started grumbling about a curse.
Maybe we didn’t save a Native American burial mound.
Maybe we crossed a voodoo priestess.
They failed to take into account we work in a dangerous profession. Not paying attention to details gets people killed.
“There’s no curse, Nadine,” I assure her, but the look in her eyes says differently.
“I don’t believe it,” Nadine continues. “He’s always so careful driving. And to suddenly drive into a tree? That’s not like him.”
I give her a placating smile, but the truth is, it might be like him if he was trying to commit suicide. That’s the other side of the job nobody wants to talk about. The mental toll it takes.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Nadine glances around the room. “There are a lot of people I need to say hello to.”
“Of course,” I step away from her.
That’s when I spot the memorial board set up along the far side of the bar.
Howard “Bumble” Beason. He was 5’6” and shaved his head, saying he was the team leprechaun. Bumble was quick with a laugh and could outrun anyone, even with his so-calledshort stumpy legs. He qualified for the Boston Marathon three years ago, a lifelong dream. One day, he prepared for his trip with a slow training run. He keeled over and died on the running trail. Doctors say he had a previously undiagnosed heart arrhythmia, even though we went through extensive physicals every year.
For years, Marian “Misty” Raanes tried to get pregnant with her husband, Jean-Luc “Trek” Rickard. When the test finally returned positive, they prepared to quit the team and join the Flamingo Cove Fire Department. That way, someone would be home with the baby at all times. Twelve weeks into the pregnancy, doctors discovered the baby wasn’t developing and died in-utero. While performing surgery to remove the body, a routine surgery, Misty’s heart gave out, and she died.
Trek had a heart attack three days later.
The faces and names flash quicker in my head: Smitty, Colossus, and Owen “Max” Maxwell.
A small hand touches my elbow. “What are you doing over here, Sparky?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing the tears to stay put. “Uh, hey, Camellia.”
She’s even more beautiful today than she was yesterday. Her brown eyes look almost black in the bar lighting. If we were outside in the sunlight, I’d see the bronze highlights in her irises that always fascinate me.
Those eyes are narrowed as she waits for an answer. “Just taking a trip down Memory Lane.”
Camellia sighs and avoids looking at the board.
Before I can say anything else, Rip butts into the conversation, per usual. “Hey, Hothouse! What’s shakin’ bacon?”
“Rip, you big bastard. Bring it in!” Camellia laughs and opens her arms for a hug.
He has a good foot on her and picks her up, swinging her around. Her feet nearly slam right into my stomach. I step back and hold onto the litany of curse words I have for Rip.
“Where have you been?” Rip puts her on the floor, then punches her lightly in the shoulder.
“Hey!” I warn.
Camellia smacks my arm. “Stand down, Sparky. I can take care of myself. And I’ve been working with the ATF in D.C. for a few years.”
Rip doesn’t look at me as he passes me a beer. “Last I heard, you were in Alaska, putting out wildfires.”
Camellia won’t make eye contact with either of us. Instead, she turns toward the crowd. “I was only there about two years.”
